by Paul Jordan
18.
NIGHTMARE DAY TWELVE
Wednesday 4 June
It was nice to wake up this morning to the yelling and screaming coming from the sick cell next door. There was a pretty good chance the lunatic had done something to piss the others off. The yelling and commotion hadn’t really woken me; I had woken quite early and read some more. It was nice being on my own and the chill in the early morning air meant I could curl up under the sheet. I then realised that it was the old man yelling, with the periodic support of Sanjay, and others would join in when there was a gap in the tirade. When Ugly unlocked the gates, the yelling got worse as my neighbours poured out of the cell. I decided to get away from it all and go for my morning pee in the drain. When I returned to the cage I walked past my neighbour’s cell to see the lunatic throwing buckets of water through the cell and the section in front. I later learnt that the lunatic had shat in the cell through the night and they were, justifiably, pretty pissed off. They made him carry bucket after bucket to clean the mess, which he did without complaint. I was glad I wasn’t in with those poor buggers.
My walking mate (Satya the politician) had to go to court today, so I walked alone. It was a relief not to have to think so hard first thing in the morning when responding to his deep questions like the one about childbirth in Australia. With Satya off to make his court appearance today, I was happy to have another quiet one knowing I’d be getting no visitors. As I slowly strolled around the yard, other prisoners were preparing for their day. Some were getting the fires burning in their makeshift stoves so they could build up a nice pile of hot coals, while others prepared chai for the morning. I received plenty of invites to sit and drink chai, but I respectfully declined and continued on my walk.
Before my friend Satya went to court he came to my cell and the old man also came in. We talked for a while, then Satya mentioned that the old man was a great singer and asked him to sing sweet songs for us. Oh God, no. So the old man started singing and, after two minutes, he stopped and told the story, then let rip with some more singing. I sat there with a smile on my face while considering how I might kill Satya for suggesting something so bloody torturous, and at the same time wondering when the old man would stop. The other thing that occurred to me was that I now thought it was the old man who had been singing at 3.00 in the morning, but couldn’t have been the one taking the beating!
Then Satya said he had to go to court, but this didn’t perturb the old man; he just kept on singing and explaining like I had a clue what he was on about. I was dying a slow and horrible death and was relieved when, after about 30 minutes, the old man finally stopped. I seized the moment and offered him a biscuit hoping that he couldn’t sing while chewing on biscuits. Then he got angry with me for not eating enough, so I had a biscuit as well. Finally, the old man decided he had things to do and left me in peace. Fucking Satya, I vowed I’d kill him.
I was desperate for some drugs to sort out this cold. It seemed to be getting worse every day. My nose was running like a tap, the headaches were crushing and my joints ached. I hoped desperately that I didn’t have malaria. I decided to try to sleep through it. Sallie was coming tomorrow. She was travelling to Katmandu today and Biratnagar this afternoon. I was worried about her, but I was sure Ujwal would look after her.
At about 1.00 pm, Sanjay and the old man came into my cell as I was resting on my back reading my book. Then they attacked me. Both of them grabbed a leg each and started massaging. The old man had fingers like steel rods covered in very course sandpaper. I started laughing again. ‘What the hell are you blokes doing?’
‘Massage, Sir,’ replied Sanjay.
‘Oh, really, I hadn’t noticed, mate.’
‘Yes, massage.’
I let it go for a few minutes but couldn’t handle it so, when the old man had almost removed my calf muscle, I put a stop to it. They were just killing time and I’d become their pet project — someone or something different to fill their days. How could this be happening to me — I’m in prison in northern Indian being massaged by fellow prisoners! How had this become my life?
I had a visit from Rajeesh, the new High Commission guy. Rajeesh is a local Indian, so he could stay in Biratnagar and cross the border daily if necessary. He proved quite ineffectual. I don’t blame the High Commission guys for their inaction — their hands were tied in what they could and couldn’t do and they wouldn’t bend the rules at all. The fact that they had taken an interest and made some calls helped, although word from New Delhi never seemed to reach the local government officers here. Rajeesh brought five bottles of water and some biscuits which was very kind of him, but I hated it because it meant that I’d be here for a while longer, particularly as Rajeesh told me that I should stockpile the water for the future. That meeting ended with me feeling depressed over my future and, returning to my cage, I just waited for lock-down.
That afternoon I took the long way to the piss drain and passed the really old man who was just slumped on the ground wearing his filthy, tattered clothes. When I got back to my cage I grabbed a packet of biscuits and gave them to him. I felt sorry for the old bugger. He should have been in hospital or at home being looked after by his family, not stuck in here living like a pig. It was interesting the way the other prisoners helped him with a mat to sit on and bits and pieces of food. I suppose, like me, they were trying for some nice return karma.
My old man was really throwing himself into his role as my helper. At night, after my bucket bath, he would roll out my bedding, set up my mosquito net, then throw flowers and flower petals around my cell. It may sound nice if you’re that way inclined, but it was bloody annoying for me because I always ended up with flowers stuck to my face in the morning and, frankly, I’m not a flower sort of guy.
I stayed up late worrying about tomorrow and Sallie’s visit. I wished she didn’t have to see me like this and I hated the idea of her being in the hotel in Biratnagar by herself. I knew she could handle herself, but I was still worried. The reality was that she shouldn’t have had to be doing this. Fuck that crazy prick at the border.
I decided to organise my mozzie coils which always took some time because the matches were cheap and always seemed to be a little damp. Every coil took about 10 matches to light. Then, in true male fashion, I decided it was time to scratch my crutch. It felt good, so instinctively I scratched again, but it was feeling too good, so I had to investigate. I adjusted the light globe and had a look in and around my kit and was shocked and repulsed by my condition. I clearly had developed a hideous fungal infection. The insides of both thighs were covered in horrible welts or slightly raised, red skin. ‘Arrrh, for fuck’s sake,’ I spat. Bloody disgusting and there was nothing I could do about it. I had no medicines and wasn’t about to mention this to the Chief Clerk. I’d seen the doctor’s sick call in the afternoons. Anyone who reported sick got a needle resembling a four-inch nail shoved into their arse. I just had to forget about it and try to sleep.
19.
NIGHTMARE DAY THIRTEEN
Thursday 5 June
As usual, I slept poorly. Next door, the lunatic had decided to make an arse of himself last night, got a couple of punches for his trouble and then cried for two hours. So I decided to read some more Primal Fear. I’d read this book before and had seen the movie, with Richard Gere playing the lawyer. The book’s an average read, but it passed the time. I dozed off again and woke at 4.00 am to enjoy the quiet and the cool morning air. I left the fan on all night as it only cooled down in the early hours of the morning and it kept the mosquitoes somewhat at bay. During the day the fan kept the flies off me.
I rolled over and noticed a pile of dirt about 20 centimetres from my head. A rat had come into my cage during the night and dug a hole where a piece of concrete had been removed. At least the filthy thing hadn’t come inside my mozzie net for a visit. I wasn’t sure I could handle that again. Rats and a fungal growth that had set up camp way too close to my kit just might have been too much
at this time.
I found myself singing the theme song to the old TV series Prisoner:
She used to give me roses
I wish she could again
But that was on the outside
And things were different then
On the inside the sun still shines
And the rain falls down
But the sun and rains on our Christmas to
When morning comes around
Last night I dreamed we were together
Sharing all the love we’d known
Till I had to face the nightmare
Of waking up alone
On the inside the roses grow
They don’t mind the stony ground
But the roses here are Christmas to
When morning comes around
I remembered as a kid lying in bed after watching the weekly episode of Prisoner. While the closing song was playing, the guard wandered the corridors of the gaol locking the gates for the night. It always depressed me and I used to think how bloody awful it would be in prison — yep!
Freedom is a luxury we don’t realise we have until it’s gone. Like most modern-day luxuries, we take it for granted and don’t really acknowledge its existence until we don’t have it any more — and then it becomes priceless. I knew what it was like to have no control over what I did, where I went, who I talked to, what I ate and drank, what time I went to bed, what time I got up — it just continued in an endless list. The list of things you lost in prison was as long as the days spent there and suddenly you started to prioritise things differently. My kids and my relationship with Sallie became more important to me than anything else.
Ugly opened the gate with his usual pleasantries, but I didn’t want to get up straight away — my time hidden under my mosquito net away from the never-ending stares was precious. Finally, Sanjay decided I needed help to get up.
‘Morning Sir … Sir, good morning … Sir, I have a gift … Sir.’
Oh for fuck’s sake. ‘Morning, Sanjay, thanks for the flower.’
Delighted, Sanjay bounced away humming some tune. How the hell could he be happy? Is he gay? He seems gay. But I don’t think he’s gay. Is it a bit gay that I accept the flowers? What else can I do? He’s a big bugger, but if he decided to go gay on me I reckoned I could sort him out — I’d certainly go out fighting, that was for sure. No. He wouldn’t do that. He was harmless and only meant to be nice and gain some points with the Hindu gods.
So, I was up now and decided I might as well get into it. I rolled out from under my mosquito net, boots on, shirt on, sarong wrapped tightly and stumbled to the drain located 20 metres away. The section of drain that I used was between two concrete barriers about one metre square and 10 centimetres wide. The barriers offered some privacy, but the technique for peeing meant that privacy really wasn’t a problem. I balanced on the edge of the drain, slowly squatted down trying not to touch anything, carefully unleashed the beast, peed, put the beast back in the cage, stood slowly, careful again not to touch anything and backed away to the water pump where a fellow inmate pumped water so I could wash my hands. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Then I walked for 30 minutes with Satya and endured a series of intense questions — it was just too early in the morning to have to think so hard. Once I realised that he didn’t understand most of what I said, I sometimes just responded randomly. Satya would ask, ‘Is there corruption in politics in Australia? This I would want to know about.’ ‘Well, the difference between the Christians and the Muslims runs deep and goes all the way back to the Crusades.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he’d reply earnestly.
I decided to mention to Satya that my girlfriend was coming today.
‘This is good news. Please allow me to meet your wife.’
‘Okay, sure.’ It was easier to let people call Sallie my wife, which also allowed her a greater voice in the efforts for my release.
The old man ended the morning walk by insisting that it was time for my morning bucket bath. He had the water ready, so I said goodbye to Satya and prepared myself for my wash. I changed into the massive underpants that I always used for washing, wrapped a towel around myself, slipped on my thongs and headed to the bucket which the old man had positioned on a clean section of concrete near the water pump. I removed my towel and draped it over a bush to keep it off the ground and out of the water. I knelt down and scooped the first load of water and poured it over my head. The first one was always a shock as it was bloody cold, and I hoped every time that this would be the last time I did this. I used most of the bucket to wet my whole body then stood to soap myself up. The old man made a move to wash my back, but I stopped him just in time. He cursed me then refilled the bucket. I poured two loads on my head to wash off all the soap and then the old man poured the remains of the bucket on me. I nearly drowned every time as about 20 litres was dropped on me. I stood and dried myself with my towel before slipping on my thongs and returning to my cage. In my cage I hid in the corner to remove my wet underpants and put on a dry pair. I still had the constant gallery of fellow prisons with bugger all else to do but come and stare at the white man, so I had to hide to change. Nudity is not acceptable in India and certainly not in prison. No-one in the prison bathed naked; it was a lesson I was taught very early on.
When my dry sarong was wrapped around me, the old man took my wet underwear and washed it before hanging it to dry on a line in front of my cage. I always tried to prevent the old man washing my jocks, but he wouldn’t hear of it, so it became just a show I performed every time he asked for them. I decided that I would shave today and I knew Sanjay had a razor because he’d been at me for days to shave, but I’d always told him that I’d wait until I got back to the hotel in Nepal. I thought this would be better because I could use my own razor in front of a decent-sized mirror. So I walked into the medical cell next door to speak to Sanjay and got my first look at their cage. Immediately I felt like a shit because I had the same sized cage to myself and there were eight of them cramped into their cage. Where my cage enjoyed some light, theirs was dark and had that all-too-familiar smell. It reminded me of some point in my past, but I couldn’t think when … oh, that’s it, Rwanda. No, Kibeho with its smell of vomit, faeces, fear and death.
20.
DEPLOYED TO HELL
In 1995 I was deployed with my patrol to Rwanda as part of Australia’s second contingent in support of the United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda (UNAMIR). We joined 300 other medics, doctors, infantrymen, drivers, cooks, engineers and signallers who were tasked with providing the UN medical support. Being the only SAS guys, we were given some autonomy, but reported to the medical company and took responsibility for the ambulances and evacuations. It was an interesting way to employ SAS soldiers, but we were just happy to get a gig and, besides, being in evac meant that we had our own room in the headquarters building while most of the others were jammed into dormitory-style accommodation for the six-month deployment.
About six weeks into the deployment, with not much in the way of excitement going on, people were starting to go on their first short leave to Nairobi. You’d get three days’ break in which people basically relaxed, drank, ate and, for the younger men, screwed the local girls. The nightclubs in Nairobi were full of young, attractive women who were looking for a white man to marry them, so sex wasn’t a hard thing to find for those in need. One place everyone would go was a restaurant called Carnivores. Basically, you’d pay US$20 and eat giraffe, ostrich, zebra, antelope and whatever else was in season. You pretty much threw about three kilograms of meat into your guts, then went on your way feeling shithouse and as though you needed to give birth to a brick.
Jon Church and I were all set to go on leave and were on the standby team when I was told that we might be deployed to an IDP (internally displaced persons) camp. The Operations Officer asked if I’d been told about it.
‘No, Sir, news to me.’
Jon and I decided to pack the ambulance an
yway, just in case we were going somewhere. We put two plastic jerry cans of water into the compartment on the roof along with our packs, two foldaway chairs, a bucket for washing, a heap of spare rations, two dumb-bells so we could continue our training, and two stretchers to sleep on. Being vehicle-mounted soldiers we knew exactly how to deploy in vehicles. If there was a chance we might have needed something and we had room, we took it.
That night, Tuesday 18 April 1995, at 5.00 pm, 32 members of the Australian Medical Support Force (AUSMED) were given orders to provide medical assistance to IDPs at the largest camp, close to the small town of Kibeho. We were told that the RPA (Rwandan Patriotic Army) was going to close all the camps starting with Kibeho, and would do so by force if necessary. I suspected they would have to use force, because the IDPs were being looked after in the camps with food, water and shelter and had no reason to leave. There was also an element of fear because the majority of the IDPs were Hutus, while the RPA was predominantly Tutsi. The Hutus had been the aggressors during the genocide 12 months earlier in which almost a million Tutsis had died. Kibeho camp was situated five hours’ drive south-west of Kigali, and was reported to contain 120,000 IDPs.
